


Sometimes, you cannot see what is hiding in the light

by finn1013



Category: Merlin (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finn1013/pseuds/finn1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin was upset, and Arthur couldn’t work out why.  AU to 5.5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do intend for this to be a one shot, but I might expand on it if you’re interested.

Arthur wasn’t completely obtuse, not all the time.

And it wasn’t a singular event that made all the cards finally fall into place. Although, truth be told, he wasn’t even completely positive he _had_ figured it out correctly.

But ... the thing was ... Merlin had cried.

At first, Arthur had disregarded the odd niggling at the back of his mind. He’d been too relieved by Mordred’s survival to give more than a passing thought to his manservant’s continued glum mood. Yet Mordred was alive, Merlin was still upset, and Arthur couldn’t work out why.

He pondered for quite some time. He thought about it constantly throughout the feast that celebrated Mordred’s recovery, an event his manservant was conspicuously absent from. He tossed and turned in bed each night until he gave up on sleep and retreated to a chair by the unlit fire. He decided his time was better put to use catching up on paperwork instead of training for a few days after his distraction (and it _was_ because of that and _only_ that) allowed Gwaine to floor him twice.

He brooded, and wondered when he’d allowed his friend to become such a menace to his peace of mind; why did Merlin’s obvious unhappiness also affect him so much? He wondered ...

 _How had Merlin known the cave was sacred?_ Arthur would never admit aloud to dwelling for so long on _anything_ Merlin had said, but he knew his friend well enough to know Merlin’s response to his question although odd and weird and peculiar, was in a way also completely normal, when it came out of _Merlin’s_ mouth.

And it was also completely genuine; Merlin had really felt all this _life_ he spoke about and was surprised that Arthur did not. How did a person feel such a thing, how _could_ a person feel such a thing?

And Merlin had cried.

Arthur leant back wearily in his chair, tossing his pen back on the table, and waited.

A knock. “You wanted to see me, sire?” Mordred shut the door quietly behind him.

“I was wondering, back there ... did you feel it?”

“Sire?” Mordred was confused.

Arthur pushed his chair aside, walking around the edge of the desk and sitting half on the corner of the table. “Could you feel it? You’re a druid, did you feel it? The _life_ around the cave?”

“Ah.” Mordred was thoughtful, and then he nodded, slowly. “I see. It’s a place of importance to the old religion, but you know that. It’s said some people may .. they may _feel_ more, that the sun shines more brightly to them in such a place, that they sense the world’s joy there. That life can be complete.” He paused. “But sire, surely you didn’t ... ?”

“No, no. Not at all. I felt nothing.” Arthur cleared his throat and added briskly, “The court physician has informed me of such places. I merely wondered what you knew about them, given your background, that’s all.”

Mordred said quietly, “I have not lived as a druid for almost half my life now, sire. I live in the world of men.” And then eyes downcast, he looked away.

*********

Arthur still couldn’t sleep, because Merlin had cried.

And it’d been nothing to do with Mordred’s possible demise.

Merlin had been completely miserable during the whole conversation about sorcery, he hadn’t even been able to manage one of those silly grins he used a lot of the time when he wanted to put Arthur off track.

_Do we accept magic, or let Mordred die?_

Merlin had cried. But why?

Later that night, by the campfire as they waited to speak with the Disir, Merlin had tossed and turned. Arthur had lain still on his bedroll feigning slumber and even managing the odd half-snore as his mind raced in circles, but he’d almost been shocked out of his act when he heard Merlin’s choked-off sob and gasping breath, quickly stifled. Arthur’s heart had pounded violently, and his breath had caught tight in a lump in his throat; when he’d dared to crack one eye open Merlin’s bedroll had been empty.

He hadn’t come back until shortly before dawn.

And Arthur had pretended he was still asleep.

********

Why had Merlin cried?

For a long time now, Arthur has puzzled over Merlin’s odd attitude towards Mordred. Merlin’s anger _You should have killed him when you had the chance_ has never been repeated. Yet he’s never really warmed to the knight. He’s polite, but ... Arthur thinks _cautious_ would be the right description.

And Arthur ponders. He thinks it’s possible that Merlin has magic, because he doesn’t like Mordred, and he cried.

It’s late, but he makes his way to Gaius’s chambers.

He has to see Merlin. And he’s not sure if his two and two is making four or five.

*********  



	2. Chapter 2

The world is silent; the castle sleeps.

Arthur settled back into the gloom at the mouth of the tunnel, leaning his shoulder against the coarse stone wall.  The air is damp, deep beneath the earth.  He’s hidden in the shadows.

He’s not quite sure how he ended up in the dragon’s old prison in the bowels of the castle.  Arthur breathes deeply, and the dim light from the flickering torch in the cave in front of him is just enough for the puff of his breath to be visible in the cool air.  He thinks, and he watches Merlin.

It had seemed such a simple thing to do:  _talk to Merlin_.  But when Arthur saw his friend sneaking out of Gaius’s chambers, he hadn’t called out to him as he normally would; he’d hidden himself and hesitated, then dammed himself for doing so, because this new Merlin he might have discovered was, regardless, still just _Merlin_.  But despite this, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to speak to Merlin just yet; instead, he’d followed him down the twisting, turning passageways to this dank, unwelcoming place.

The torch that Arthur had trailed from a distance is now sitting in a sconce, and the wall behind it is marred with a dark coating of soot, like it’s felt the burn of fire often.

Merlin is sitting just at the peripheral of the light.  His back is against the wall.  He’s hunched in a ball; his arms are crossed and he’s resting them across his bent knees.  His face is hidden from Arthur, lost in the gloom of the enormous cavern.

The silence is heavy, the weight of the earth presses down, and it seems to Arthur like he’s been standing watching Merlin forever.  He thinks about leaving, and keeping this confrontation or talk or whatever it’ll be for another night because he _still_ doesn’t know what he’ll say, but then, he realises Merlin’s shoulders are shaking with awkward, jerky motions, and all Arthur can think is, _Merlin, please don’t cry_.

“Do you come here often?”  Arthur’s voice is loud in the silence.

“Arthur!”  Merlin startles in an ungainly burst of limbs and bangs his head against the wall.  He lurches to his feet, wide-eyed, and in that single honest moment there’s something resembling raw loss and utter devastation in his eyes.  But it’s ephemeral, gone so quickly that Arthur almost wonders if he’d imagined it;  Merlin veils his expression, ducking his head and dragging the back of his sleeve across his face.

Something in the vicinity of Arthur’s chest hurts with an odd, stabbing pain.  “Sit.”  Arthur steps out of his hidden vantage point, motioning with a wave of his hand for Merlin to sit back down.  Arthur closes the gap between them and slides down to sit against the wall.  He waits patiently, staring out into the darkness in front of them.

Merlin is still standing, and Arthur knows without looking that Merlin is watching him warily.

Arthur sighs and stretches his legs.  “Look, I know you shouldn’t be here, I don’t care.  Just sit,” he repeats, and finally, Merlin does, settling down beside Arthur and rubbing the back of his head gingerly.

The silence lingers, until Arthur breaks it.  “So?”

“So what?”  Merlin has made a determined effort at normality, he sounds vaguely curious.

“Do you come here often?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Merlin shrug then and surreptitiously wipe at his eyes.

“Uh ... sometimes.  It’s private, peaceful, and it feels ...”  He clears his throat.  “I like it.  And it’s cool in summer.”  He draws his knees back against his chest, and rests his elbows on them.  “Were you following me, sire?  Because if you were, then that’s just ...”

Arthur supposes creeping around after your manservant is a bit well, _creepy_.  “Maybe.”  But he won’t be distracted, not now.  “I wanted to talk with you.”

“So, if there’s a next time, why follow me all this way?  Why not call out?”

“I could have.  But now I’ll know where to look when you’re trying to avoid me.”

Merlin snorts, and it seems that is to be his only response.  Somewhere off in the darkness, there’s a slow, steady _plop_ of dripping water.

Arthur says quietly, “There something wrong, there has been for days, longer.  Tell me.”

Merlin’s breath hitches, but then smoothes into a regular rhythm again and he answers steadily enough.  “What makes you say that?”

_Because you cried, and I want you to tell me why._

Instead Arthur says, “You know, most people, if they have something to think about, they ... they at least go somewhere more agreeable.  Outside in the woods perhaps, or up in the battlements.  In one of the gardens.  Or in Gwaine’s case, the tavern.”

“What’s wrong with here?”

“Other than it being a dirty, dark hole in the ground?  It’s cold and I’m freezing, it’s smelly; it reeks of dragon down here.”

Merlin half smiles.  “The smell’s not from the dragon, it’s just the damp.  And the tavern’s too noisy.”

“So the long face the last few days.  Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

_Why did you cry?_

Merlin tips his head to the side.  His face is concealed in the shadows.  “It’s nothing.”

“There’s something bothering you about Mordred, isn’t there?”

“No, he seems fine now.”

“Stop trying to deliberately misunderstand me;  you know what I mean, Merlin.”

Merlin was silent for a long moment.  “I can’t say.  Just a feeling.”

_You thought it had to be Mordred or magic, why?_ “About Mordred?  You can’t say, or you won’t say?”

Merlin shakes his head.  “It’s just a feeling.”

“A feeling again?”  Arthur liked to think he personally wasn’t _girlish_ , and didn’t talk about _feelings_ , but he did now and then, with Merlin.  Yet Merlin’s walls very rarely came down.  It hurt, the block, even though Arthur was starting to comprehend some of the reasons why.

_Tell me, why did you cry?_   It’s a simple question, but the words stick in Arthur’s throat.

Arthur shifts uncomfortably, there’s a stone poking up in just the wrong place.  When he settles back down he’s sitting closer to Merlin; their shoulders brush together, but neither of them pull away.

Arthur thinks, _Merlin, will you tell me why?_

He says, “Right then, since you want to talk about feelings, then what is it, Merlin, that you want out of life?”

Merlin moves restlessly.  “Is there something bothering _you_?  We’re not going to have a conversation about what makes eternal happiness, or the meaning of life or some such thing right now, are we?  Because I can tell you that’s a conversation I’ve had with Gwaine when he’s in his cups many times and we always go around in circles.”

_Tell me Merlin, why you cried._ “That’s not an answer, Merlin.”

“So something _is_ bothering you, isn’t it?  Is that why you followed me?”

Arthur can’t help the exasperated sigh.  “Your skills at evasion would make a diplomat proud.”  And he realises he’s very, very tired.

Merlin glanced at him carefully, then he shut his eyes and leant his head back against the wall.  He’s silent and frowning like he’s facing an inquisition, and the exhaustion Arthur feels is reciprocated on Merlin’s face.

Arthur waits, he rubs his eyes; he’s learnt not to fill the silence with Merlin, and the tactic pays off when Merlin’s eyes open again and he meets Arthur’s gaze.  Merlin says honestly, “You know what I want.  I want to see you be the king you’re destined to be.  I want to see Camelot flourish and prosper, to be a fair kingdom for all.”

For all.  _All_ its citizens, even those with ...  “But what of yourself?  What do you want for yourself?”

For a moment Merlin seems puzzled.  Then he shrugged, and his arm is warm against Arthur’s side.  “Those aren’t goals enough for you? You think I should want more than to be a servant to a king?”

“Well, there is honour in it, I suppose, to serve a king.”

“Only if the king is worthy.”

_You cried, and I think I know why._

“Well, there you go then.”  Arthur glanced sideways.  “You’re still not laughing at my jokes.”

“Oh, but I am.  They’re very funny.”  Merlin is half-smiling, and Arthur’s expression starts to grow suspicious.  “What is this, Arthur?  I’m happy to be your servant until the day I die.”

“I know.  But ... you’re not a very good servant.  It’s not much of a promise.”

“It’s all I have to give.”

It’s simple, and honest, and for a moment Arthur has to look away.  He gathers his courage, this is as close as he can get for now.  “Merlin, if you were in my place ... did I do the right thing, to reject magic?”  He can’t see Merlin’s expression at all, his face is in the shadows.  “Merlin, look at me.”

Merlin does, but he’s slow and reluctant, and Arthur glimpses for a fleeting moment that same look he had over the campfire when they were waiting for the Disir; Merlin’s lips are pressed firmly together, and he’s breathing too fast and hard for a conversation that shouldn’t be important to him.

And Arthur thinks, _You cried Merlin, and I know why._

Arthur waits, and Merlin’s shoulders straighten and he says with a quiet determination, “You cannot accept what you cannot believe in Arthur, not even if you think the price will be a man’s life.  Such a decision has to come from within you.”

“And what if it might, some day?  Then what would you say?”

Merlin is still.  Then he shrugs, and manages a faint smile.  “As long as you’re true to yourself ... then that’s all that matters to me.”

Arthur shakes his head.  “I wish ... I just wish you felt you could tell me ...”  He trails off.  No, he won’t push, he can’t, it’s not the time:  that which was broken has to heal, and there’s trust to build, and wrongs to make right.

Merlin’s glance is wary, and slightly puzzled.  “What, Arthur?”

“I understand.”  Merlin’s confusion grows, but Arthur doesn’t explain.  Instead he yawns convincingly.  “It’s late.  It’s cold.  Let’s go.”  He smiles at Merlin’s frown of incomprehension, at this not-so-new-after-all-Merlin who finds the dragon’s old lair peaceful instead of unwelcoming, at Merlin who knows what the dragon _doesn’t_ smell like.

Arthur stands and stretches the kinks out of his back, and his smile grows wider because Merlin is scowling.

Arthur reaches out a hand, and yanks his protesting friend up.

And Arthur thinks, _It’s not fate or destiny, Merlin, it’s because you cried._

 

************

END

***********

 


End file.
